Awake Unto Me
by hopeisabluebird
Summary: Biloxi, MS, 1920: Alice fights to maintain her own identity against a pale-eyed man. But preserving a sense of self may just be too hard, even for her ... AU. All human. JxA
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hello my friends! This is an Alice story that I have wanted to tell for awhile now. It is an all human fic set in Biloxi in 1920. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.**

**APOV (and the man she speaks of is James). **

_Awake Unto Me_

Chapter One: Fall from Heaven

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_Beautiful Dreamer …_

_Awake unto me… _

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She had never encountered evil quite like this before.

Evil tends to have a lazy quality, like a bloated animal rolling downhill. Fat. Ugly. Stupid. Somebody wants something and the _easiest_ way to get it is to lie, cheat or steal. The path of least resistance. It takes no effort to become the petty thief, the mugger in the midnight alley, the teenage gang member pulling the trigger in the drive by shooting. No mistakes. No guilt. No effort. It was simple.

Becoming a serial killer or a dictator takes quite a bit more effort.

Oh yes. For that takes planning, skill and a persistent dedication to the ultimate Goal. She could picture in her mind what Lucifer must have looked like before he tumbled down from the heights of heaven. His pupils must have dilated so much as to completely cover his irises. His perfectly black eyes zeroed in on a goal located just behind the left temple of any person he looked at. Even God. She was tired just _thinking _of the effort involved in keeping eye contact with a shadowy goal just off the left hand of God.

Yes, to achieve a true, demented, worthy of falling from Heaven, snake in the grass, angel of light, demon from hell Evil takes time, effort, planning, and determination. Heaven and Earth weren't built in a day. She would bet the rest of the hair on her head that Old Scratch's fall from grace took more than a day too.

Maybe that was what made true Evil so scary. Socrates used to argue that people only sinned out of ignorance. They didn't know any better. It was easy to do at the time. If they could just _learn_, then they wouldn't sin. Then they _would_ know better.

And then, for some reason, she could hear the faint, off-key dings of a radio commercial. Yes, and if you just take Socrates' class today the education of your mind will make you a perfect person. No more ignorance! No more pain! All in one easy dialogue.

She didn't really think it worked that way. However much evil on small scale scared her, it was nothing to the Satans of the world. It was the people who sinned purposefully and persistently that scared her the most.

What made this Evil so scary, so worthy of capital letters, was how much effort it took to achieve. After all, the dehumanization of another human being is no easy task. The teenage gang member pulling the trigger in the drive by shooting might have little _real_ connection with his victim. They were only the faceless members of a rival gang. And if he did accidentally hit an innocent bystander, then so be it. That bystander is faceless as well. But to practice a kind of unrelenting cruelty all day – every day – to a victim, looking that victim in the eye … watch her eat, sleep, speak ….

That was a kind of evil altogether different.

What scared her was the goal of that kind of Evil. The black eyes with the dilated pupils were focused on the little people in the periphery of his vision. Like a condensed beam of light, all he wanted to do was make the people small, distorted, easy to manipulate. He tried to make people into Things. Or not Things, but things.

It took just as much concentration and determination to resist becoming a thing. And that was what she was doing. She had a name. She had a soul. She would not become the next faceless victim.

Because there was one thing he had never seen her do. He had never seen her cry.

**Please review! Thanks. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Hello my friends! Here is the next chapter for Awake Unto Me. I hope that it makes sense to everyone. However, the POV is still Alice, and she's, well, Alice, so expect a bit of the zany in her perspective. Also, she's in a terrible, terrible place, which hopefully explains some of the incoherency in her language. **

**By the way, the words in italics at the beginning of the chapter are from "Beautiful Dreamer," by Stephen Foster, published in 1864. Although this is set in 1920, I wanted this song to be a nod to Jasper's original story. Never fear, though, he does make an appearance in the next chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Two: Beads

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_Starlight and dewdrops…_

_Are waiting for thee… _

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She could hear the soft voice of her sister, reading to her. They were sitting in the shade of the large water oak tree at the edge of the drive. The sun was filtering through the branches, making her sister squint as she sounded out the words on the page.

Her sister was just learning to read ….

_"'Soldiers don't complain,' she would say between her small, shut teeth, 'I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of a war.'"_

_Cynthia._ That was her name.

She repeated it over and over again in her mind.

_Cynthia. _

"'_It _is_ a story,' said Sara. '_Everything's_ a story. You are a story – I am a story.'"_

_A Little Princess_. It was the only story she remembered.

She had very few memories from her life Before. Before they tried to heal her. Before the darkness. Before the Evil that tried to make her into a Thing. Before they tried to take away the pictures in her head. Before she saw the world in Black in White. Before capital letters.

But she remembered her sister the best. Although she had been younger, she had always been stronger.

The darkness was thick, and she could not see. She knew he would be coming soon, so she went through her nightly ritual. Back straight. Closed eyes. Legs tucked beneath her on the ground.

She walked into a beautiful home. There was a water oak tree beside the drive. Inside the house were rooms which she could see with perfect clarity. The room she shared with her sister. The old dollhouse. Books. Paper dolls on the floor. Dress-up clothes in the chest with the broken lid. Then, her father's study, with the musty smell of old books and papers. Her mother's dresser, with the glass bottles of perfume and the jeweled necklaces. The sun caught the garnets and the sapphires, sprinkling the colors across the wall.

She danced through the screen door onto the back porch. Her mother was sitting in the old swing next to her father. Her sister sat on the step, her back leaning against the wooden post. Her mother – pale, small, dark-haired – kissed her on the cheek. Her lips felt cool and dry. She knew that she would only be able to see her mother in her mind though. She lived beneath a marble stone now just behind Holy Road Baptist Church. She never even got to say goodbye.

Her father touched her cheek, his hands soft. His eyes never saw her though. They looked down … up … all around. Never at her. She looked at his though. There were always crinkles at the edges, and ridges above on his forehead. He was worried. He worried about _her_. She tried to fix it. To make it better. She tried to hide it. But she couldn't.

The sun was setting. The pink rays were behind her father, highlighting his small stature and white blond hair.

"We're taking you, uh, to … to a specialist, Mary."

She never responded. She just straightened her back and looked at him.

'"_As to answering, though,' said Sara, trying to console herself, 'I don't answer very often. I never answer when I can help it. When people are insulting you, there is nothing so good for them as not to say a word – just to look at them and think.'"_

She usually didn't think…. She just reached back, way back into her mind, and watched the pictures that came behind her eyes.

Darkness.

A pale-eyed man in a white coat.

And always her favorite … The blond haired man with blue eyes.

She knew it would do no good to respond to her father. The pictures behind her eyes were the clearest when there was no way to change them. The pale-eyed man in the white coat was defined with a sharp clarity that made her know she _would_ see him. The path her father was on would lead her to darkness and to _him_.

But she also knew that the blue-eyed man was the clearest of all. She just concentrated on him. She would see him soon. He would save her.

_Please save me soon._

"We think, uh, that this … place … will, hmmm, help you. That you will, uh, get better at this … place."

She knew her father loved her. That was why he did what he did. It was ironic really. Sometimes she laughed in the darkness when she thought about it. She had been placed in the worst place imaginable, and had to fight the worst man imaginable, all because her father loved her.

She looked at her sister. _Cynthia_ … Cynthia was her name…

Cynthia looked her in the eye, at least. But Cynthia feared her too. She could see it in her sister's face.

"We just want you to be happy," her mother whispered. She was lying though. She knew her mother meant to say, "_We just want you to be normal_."

_Goodbye, Mother._

Cynthia walked into the pale pink sunset. She never saw her again.

She knew that her sister married. He was a nice boy, her father assured her, never looking her in the eye. He would take care of Cynthia.

_Goodbye, Cynthia._

She knew that was why her father had sent her to this place. It was to train her. To train her to be normal. To train her to be married. So that somebody else could take care of her. He couldn't handle being burdened with a daughter who saw things behind her eyes any more.

She opened her eyes in the darkness, her back wilting from its straight angle. She felt a warmth inside her chest where the memories were. There was a light that protected the little house with the water oak beside the drive. It protected the bedroom shared with her sister. The paper dolls in the floor. It protected her father's study. Her mother's dresser with the bottles of perfume. It protected the back porch with the swing that looked out on the pink sunset. Mother. Father. _Cynthia._

They were like beads on a necklace, her memories.

_He_ could not take them from her.

She heard the door to her room open, although she could not see it in the darkness. She wondered vaguely what kind of night it would be. Sometimes he would come in and just sit, and she would wait. Wondering when it would begin, her back becoming stiff with the strain of keeping it straight.

And then sometimes he would fight with her, trying to make her do things.

"Fetch me a glass of iced tea, Mary," he would say.

"Say, 'Yes sir," to me, Mary," he would say.

"Say, 'It was just a dream,' Mary," he would say.

Sometimes she obeyed. But she would always wait just a second too long before doing so. He knew what she was doing. She was telling him that it was by her own choice if she obeyed him. She made the rules. Not him. Never him.

He tried to make her forget. Forget her sister. Forget her mother. Forget who she was.

"What is your name, Mary?" he would say.

At first she answered him. "My name is Alice." My name is Alice and I see pictures behind my eyes. My name is Alice and I see visions. My name is Alice and I cannot be controlled. My name is Alice and you cannot control me.

But then the pressure built and she stopped. So she started playing with him.

"My name is Nobody. My name is Darkness. My name is Night. My name is No Vision," she would say, playing with words.

She knew this night when he came in that something was different. It was in the whisper of his breathing, the sound of his voice. It was always his voice before that hit her, coming out of the darkness. The words fell like stones, trying to force her to drop her necklace of memories, to become what he wanted her to become.

This time, however, he actually used his fists.

She clinched her teeth together and fought him. She would not cry. She would not scream. _She would not give in she would not give in she would not give in she would not give in she would not give in…_

"What is your name, Mary?"

"Say 'Yes sir,' to me, Mary."

"Say 'It was just a dream,' Mary."

"What is your name, Mary?"

She would not do it. She would not become a Thing to him. She would not become a thing. She would not do it.

"'_Whatever comes,' she said, 'cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in clothes of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.'"_

Because he could make her do a lot of things, but he couldn't make her speak.

**Please review and tell me what you think! I tried really hard to create a believable portrait of Alice's home and family... **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Hooray! Jasper appeareth! I hope everyone enjoys Jasper in this chapter. I tried very hard to keep him in character. Since the story takes place during 1920, I made Jasper a soldier during WWI. I hope everyone enjoys what he has to say about it. **

**I've also started setting up Jasper and Alice's first meeting. It is sorta/kinda an arranged marriage. But only in the loosest sense of the term. Things were done a bit differently then, so I hope the concept isn't too far out there. There is also this big difference: Carlisle would never _force _Jasper to marry anyone against his will. On Jasper's side, in any case, the meeting with Alice is nothing more than that: a meeting. That he decides to go through with it is all part of his reaction to the Great War. **

**I also hope everyone likes how I handled Jasper's power. I didn't want it to be just like in Twilight because, obviously, Jasper is not a vampire. But I wanted y'all to be able to see what he's doing, hence the particular description I used. **

**As for the background to the Cullen family ... Esme and Carlisle are married in this story, and have been for a while. I know that pushes Esme's story back some, but deal with it. I can change things like that because I'm the author. :o). You'll get more of Esme's backstory later. Emmett, Jasper and Edward are their adopted sons. Jasper is Jasper Whitlock Cullen, for those of you concerned with names and such. Emmett is already married to Rosalie. They have only been married about a year, and are expecting a baby. Edward has not met Bella yet, but I'm planning on a meeting later on in the story. So stay tuned. :o) **

**Anyway, I wanted this story to be as realistic as possible, which is why I'm taking so much time to set up character motivation and such. If there is anything that seems too out there, please message me and let me know. **

**This chapter is dedicated to CrazyPerson and OstentatiousQuerida for reviewing both of the previous chapters. Thanks y'all! :o) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Three: For a Friend

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_Sounds of the rude world … _

_Heard in the day … _

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Jasper Cullen didn't understand why this was necessary. And he still wasn't sure he understood the ins and outs of what was going on. The only thing he knew was that his adopted father was pressuring him to marry the daughter of an old family friend. Maybe _pressuring_ was the wrong word. Carlisle would never _actually_ pressure. He just looked at you with those sincere brown eyes and _willed_ you to see the justice and rightness of what he was asking.

So Jasper agreed like he usually did, because he loved Carlisle. He trusted his father enough to know that he wouldn't _pressure_ him towards a decision he would later regret.

"She's the oldest daughter of an old friend of mine. I haven't seen her in several years. But I remember when she was a little girl. So tiny! But she had a sunshine inside of her," Carlisle smiled.

"And why exactly do you want me to do this again?" asked Jasper.

"Well, I did a good job in Emmett's case," said Carlisle sheepishly.

What Carlisle was conveniently forgetting was that he had almost pushed Rosalie on his youngest son, Edward. Thankfully, Rosalie had fought and argued her way out of that one.

"But Carlisle … you remember how hard it was with Rosalie at first?" Jasper was a bit hesitant. Rosalie had been a patient of Carlisle's. Jasper didn't know the whole of Rosalie's story, but after seeing her when he met her the first time, there was a part of him that didn't want to.

"Ah, son, you just weren't looking hard enough. You watched Rosalie. You just didn't _see_ her. I knew she would make a wonderful wife." The warmth of Carlisle's eyes extended to his deep interior.

Jasper hardly thought that was fair. After all, at least he had "seen" more than Edward had, at first. Edward, for all his perceptiveness, hadn't felt the fear and anger and … hope … that had tangled out from Rosalie at first. Edward really could be incredibly stupid sometimes.

Jasper really couldn't explain it, but he sometimes caught, at the very edge of his peripheral vision … ribbons … of color … around a person. He had never really explained it to anyone, maybe because he couldn't really explain it to himself, but he had come over the years to associate those ribbons of color with emotions. The stronger the emotion, the sharper the color of the ribbon would be. Occasionally – only occasionally -- if it was really powerful, the ribbon would stretch towards him and leave a sharp taste in his mouth.

Fear had a taste. So did love.

"So, are you going to answer my question, Carlisle? Why are we doing this again?"

There was a faint edge of pink at the edge of his eye that Jasper barely caught before he blinked – which was interesting, because Carlisle was hardly ever embarrassed.

"Well, Brandon has had a few business reverses over the years… But he's a very honorable man… And he wanted to clear his debt…." Carlisle coughed.

Jasper raised an eyebrow. For some reason, Marc Antony's speech in _Julius Caesar_ came to mind, "_And Brutus is an honorable man_…"

"I wanted to just erase his debts, but Brandon wouldn't have it. So he wanted to know if you would marry his daughter…" Carlisle trailed off. Jasper could see the pink even more clearly now.

"Carlisle, this isn't the Middle Ages," he objected evenly.

"Jasper," Carlisle sighed. "I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't think it could work out. Her younger sister is already married … And this was the only thing he knew to do …. I couldn't convince him to … He just doesn't know what else …" He sighed and rubbed his chin. "Would you please just agree to meet her? For me? I want to give Brandon peace of mind. He's an old friend," he concluded simply.

Jasper shook his head. Just like Carlisle. Someone only had to play on his sense of honor and humanity, and he was on board with anything.

"Of course, Carlisle," Jasper said. "What is her name?"

"Her name is Mary Brandon."

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Jasper went to see Emmett and Rosalie the next day. He hadn't really seen them in a while. Really, he just wanted to see how Rosalie was doing. And if the subject should come up of how they fell in love, then so be it. He could ask questions … see what they thought about Carlisle's plan. But it would be nice to see them.

The chime of the doorbell rang through the house. Emmett opened the door.

"Hello, Jasper!" he said, making Jasper wince slightly when he shook his hand.

"It's good to see you Emmett. How is Rosalie?" he said.

"Well, why don't you come and ask her?" said Emmett, smiling.

They walked through the spacious hallway into the living room. Rosalie was sitting in a rocking chair, tinkering with something. Jasper thought she might be fixing the old clock that sat on the mantle above the fireplace. Damn thing chimed at the oddest times, and never when it was supposed to. He grinned though, amused at how expert Rosalie seemed around anything with mechanical insides. The clock was perched upon her round stomach.

Jasper bent and kissed her cheek. "How are you feeling, Rosalie?"

"Fine, Jasper, just fine," she said.

Jasper smiled. He knew Rosalie would never say otherwise. She was too strong for that.

"Well, Jasper, what brings you out today?" Emmett clapped Jasper on the back and sat down. More like flopped down. The couch groaned slightly.

"Well…." Jasper rubbed his eyes and felt a flush cover his face. God, he _never_ blushed. Emmett's laughter made him turn ever redder. But he spoke quickly to cover it.

"I suppose y'all heard about Carlisle's plan for me?" he asked. Rosalie's face became more serious, but Emmett was still smiling when they both nodded.

"I just wanted to see what y'all thought about it," he said, rubbing his eyes again.

"I think Carlisle has excellent taste. Rosalie is the best thing to ever happen to me," said Emmett, taking her hand.

"And I'm glad to have Emmett," said Rosalie in a low, fierce voice. The room was silent for a moment, and then she said, "Do we know the girl?"

"Well," Jasper cleared his throat, "That was one reason why I stopped by. I wondered if you might know her, Rosalie. I know she's not been in town for the past few years because of ill health, but I wondered if you might have known her when you were both children."

"What's her name?" asked Rosalie.

"Her name is Mary Brandon," said Jasper.

Rosalie whispered the name to herself a few times, and there was a fuzzy gray color at the edge of Jasper's eyes. Ah. Confusion.

"I don't remember a Mary Brandon," she finally said.

Jasper nodded and said thanks, but he was disappointed – not perhaps surprised, but disappointed. He really didn't expect Rosalie to remember her. He had known that she only had one really close friend from childhood still. Her name was Vera, he thought.

He was surprised when Rosalie took his hand. She usually avoided displays of affection, and most of the time, even he had trouble untangling her emotions. Determination (or what Edward called "pig-headedness") shielded anything softer than the bright red of her tenacity.

Rosalie, and Emmett as well, for that matter, had a special kind of vision that focused on the exterior of things. Neither of them (but especially Emmett) tended to pick up on emotions or body language. Jasper really didn't mind. Sometimes he even wished he could have some of the obvious joy they took in the physical world. Just bottle it up and take it with him. It occurred to him that he lived too much in his mind … in his books … in the colors at the edges of his eyes … to focus on the world. It would be restful to be free somewhat from the lingering encroachment of others' lives.

"Go ahead and meet her," she whispered. "It doesn't take much just to meet her. Trust Carlisle in this. She may be wonderful. And you need something wonderful … after what has happened," she finished.

Jasper nodded and squeezed her hand.

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Rosalie was right.

Jasper had hardly been himself since returning from Europe last summer. Since returning from the Great War (the Great Massacre, _he_ called it). He tried to block from his mind the memories of France. But he still saw the images in his mind.

Gas creeping along the trenches.

Steam rising from the still-warm corpses of machine-gunned men.

A rat caught in the barbed wire.

And he had only been there a few months. Some of the boys from England had been there years. He had no idea how they didn't all go stark raving mad.

Some of them staved off insanity by writing poetry, and Jasper would read it. It was the only way he could think about the carnage without feeling sick to his stomach. There was one by a kid named Wilfred Owen that he liked.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Jasper knew the kind of bone-numbing fatigue the kid was talking about. It had plagued him when he returned home after the shrapnel attack. He couldn't eat. He couldn't talk. He couldn't see anyone. He couldn't see anything, not even the ribbons of color at the edge of his vision. All he did for a month was sleep.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

Esme was the one who finally got him to come out of his room. What did it was the dull purple color of worry. It was so powerful it left a stale taste in his mouth. It was the only thing that could pull him from the feeling of drowning, like he was drowning in the gas with all the other poor kids.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

He tried not to think about how the kid died right before the war was over. 1893-1918. Twenty-five years old. Wilfred Owen. When Esme pulled him off his bed, he kept repeating to himself, "I am alive. I am alive." And somehow, knowing he was alive when this kid wasn't made him put one foot in front of another. After all, Wilfred Owen would never be able to cry in front of his mother again. And that's what Jasper did. He cried.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; _Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori._

Jasper always laughed at the end. _How sweet and right it is to die for your country_. Sometimes he laughed so hard he cried. He thought that very little in life was worth the carnage he saw. 1893-1918 were numbers repeated all through the book of poetry. So many kids … But then, he also liked a poem by Robert Service. It was more hopeful maybe … less likely to make him laugh … or cry.

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn,  
The guns have brayed without abate;  
And now the sick sun looks upon  
The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate  
As if it loathed to rise again.  
How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark!  
From yon down-trodden gold of grain,  
The leaping rapture of a lark.

Edward had begged and begged Carlisle to let him go to Europe and fight too. But the first time he saw Jasper after Esme finally got him out of bed, his face had gone pale. He knew that Jasper had been hit by shrapnel fire. That he had scars covering two-thirds of his body now. But Jasper thought that Edward had reacted more to the dead look in his eyes than to the bandages covering his skin. He chuckled darkly to himself. The poor idiot had never mentioned fighting ever since.

A fusillade of melody,  
That sprays us from yon trench of sky;  
A new amazing enemy  
We cannot silence though we try;  
A battery on radiant wings,  
That from yon gap of golden fleece  
Hurls at us hopes of such strange things  
As joy and home and love and peace.

He sighed when he thought about a home with Mary. And he hoped the poem was right – that even war could not eradicate the peace of a home. He wondered if Mary would be like the lark, full of rapture and gold. He remembered Carlisle's words, "_She had a sunshine inside of her_." He could use some sunshine.

Pure heart of song! Do you not know  
That we are making earth a hell?  
Or is it that you try to show  
Life still is joy and all is well?  
Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain  
You beat into that bit of blue:  
Lo! we who pant in war's red rain  
Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too.

Jasper put the book down and sighed. He could do it. He felt the ghosts of all the millions of dead kids drifting silently through his library. He had to come out of his memories and live. For them. And if trusting Carlisle and meeting Mary were part of the activity of living, then so be it. After all, he knew that Carlisle would not force him to marry her if he did not wish to. It was an "arranged marriage" only in the loosest sense of the term.

He would meet her. For them.

**Please review and let me know what you think! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N I hope that this chapter explains a bit more about Alice's situation and what must happen to get her out. I've tried really hard to delineate her father's motivations well ... let me know if they don't make sense. Oh... and pay attention! There is mention of another character that will make an appearance later. :o)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Four: That Heaven Finds Means

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_Led by the moonlight … _

_Have all passed away … _

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To obey was to get out of this place. But to obey was to lose, to become what _he_ wanted her to become.

"Bend or break, Mary," _he_ said.

But the man with the blond hair and blue eyes was becoming so clear in her mind that she imagined him sitting next to her, holding her hand during the nightly beatings. She imagined him whispering in her ear, "You don't have to bend, Alice. You don't have to break. You can fight."

Oh yes, the beatings were nightly now. She didn't try to fight _him_ off anymore. She knew that the quickest way to get to the blond man with blue eyes was to submit to the pale-eyed man in the white coat. Or pretend to submit ("You can still fight, Alice."). It was an odd way of fighting, but she did it. She was still during the beatings. And said, 'Yes sir." And she got him his iced tea. She was a perfect lady.

But she made sure to spit into every glass of iced tea before she gave it to him.

______________________________________________________________________________

He walked into her room that evening, and she knew _he_ wasn't alone. Instead of one short, ordinary, pale-eyed man, she saw two.

"Mary, I … uh … am here to see you," her father said.

She waited.

"I am, uh, arranging a marriage for you. I know that your, uh, therapy has been progressing, uh, well, and, uh, I think it's time for you to marry," he cleared his throat.

She wondered vaguely if her father knew about what exactly her "therapy" entailed. She bet not. Her father might be stupid, but he wasn't heartless.

They had tried different medicines on her at first. Conventional therapy, really. The drugs had made her so sick though that she lost all connection with the world. Her father had put a stop to _that_ therapy. Anyway, she was perfectly normal except for her claim to see the future in her dreams. Surely the doctors could heal her of _that_.

Besides, he wanted her to get married one day. He only wanted her off his hands, not in some state asylum. That was why he had placed her in a private asylum. So no one would have to know, least of all the great state of Mississippi (or, more importantly, the neighbors). She would get better, be married, and no one would be the wiser. It was becoming too expensive to keep her here now though … So now they were trying "counseling." Cheaper and less hallucination-inducing than the medication … But if that didn't work, then marriage it was. She wondered if he found out what the pale-eyed man was doing if her father would stop that therapy as well.

"Really, uh, Mary, you're saving me now," he laughed weakly. "I've arranged a marriage between you and one of Carlisle Cullen's sons."

She barely remembered Carlisle Cullen. She had never consciously added him to her necklace of memories. But she did remember his warm brown eyes. And she knew which son it was. The blond-haired one with blue eyes. She could see him so clearly in her mind, she almost expected him to sit down next to her. To take her hand and hold it. To save her now.

She wasn't stupid. She remembered Carlisle well enough (she remembered his warm brown eyes) to know that this wasn't an arranged marriage. She knew she could back out. But she wouldn't. Because it brought the blond-haired man with blue eyes to her.

"In return, Carlisle is … um … canceling some debts that I, uh, still owe him," her father shuffled around a bit, and then mumbled, "But perhaps I, uh, shouldn't have told you that, Mary."

She might be crazy, but she wasn't dumb. She knew it made her father sleep at night. It was the perfect excuse. He was honor-bound to pay his debts. He _had_ to. And what better way to do it than through his daughter? Then she would be cared for by someone other than him (which was the principle virtue of the plan). He could go back to his little house with the water oak shading the drive, back to his library with the musty books and papers, back to a way of living where he was so colorless and spineless he bothered no one.

Back to a life where he could disappear. Back to a life where he needn't bother with human interaction.

He was killing two birds with one stone, really.

Besides, most of the debts had probably been incurred by her. Private asylums weren't cheap, after all.

It did make her wonder though … Who was more cruel – the man who hit her, or the man who allowed it?

In a distant sort of way, she pitied her father. She remembered what her first visions were like. They had come in her dreams late at night. She saw the arrowhead, and Cynthia reading _A_ _Little Princess_ under the water oak tree. But then they became serious. No one had believed her the next day when she claimed to see a friend drowning, screaming and crying from the fear and panic of it. She still tried to push the memory away. He was her friend. If only she had been able to speak better. She had only been a little girl, and she couldn't seem to make them understand.

To them it was nonsense. It was a dream. It was a nightmare. Maybe she has a fever. Or indigestion. Perhaps Mary should stay away from the lake for a while.

She always wondered afterward why their reaction to her visions was strictly _fear_. If they had just _listened_ to her afterwards … then maybe the barn would not have burned. She saw it. She warned them. Maybe the horse would not have become ill either. She saw that too. After the fourth or fifth time though, she stopped warning them. She stopped trying to help.

Instead, she had felt the awful, side-splitting, headache-inducing, train engine-exploding pressure to become Mary. The perfect daughter. The ordinary daughter. The daughter who did not have strange pictures behind her eyes. The daughter who could be given away in marriage. But she wouldn't do it. And it was her resistance that put her here, in this dark room with the pale-eyed man. Sometimes life made her laugh so hard she cried.

Because she wasn't Mary. She was Alice. And she would never be anyone else but Alice.

"So, uh, Mary, you will stay here until, uh, the wedding day has been … ahem … arranged. In the meantime, I will … um … take you to visit Mr. Cullen and his family a few times so that you … may, uh, get acquainted."

To obey was to leave this place. But to obey was to lose.

She couldn't lose. She _wouldn't_ lose.

"And please, uh, Mary," he pleaded. "_Please_ behave yourself."

It was his plea from the beginning. As if the pictures behind her eyes were some kind of rebellion. Well, she had to hand it to her father. In all things but this he was weak, but in this he would see it through. He _would_ see her be normal.

The only problem was that he closed his eyes to anything that might happen on the way to his goal. The end justified the means … So long as he did not have to know the means. Ignorance was bliss. Ignorance was innocence.

He mumbled a bit more, "I, uh … hope that you … are, uh, happy here. I will come, uh, and get you, uh, on Thursday evening."

She was herself. She had a heart. She had a soul. She had a voice, which she would use when and to whom she wanted.

My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice.

She would not bend to her father. She would not bend to _him_.

But she smiled. But she nodded at her father. But she said, "Yes sir."

He awkwardly patted her back and left her. Left her with _him_.

_Goodbye, Father._

_____________________________________________________________________________

She remembered her mother brushing her hair in the evenings. That was when she had long black hair.

"My mother used to do this with me when I was a girl," her mother whispered.

Alice knew she was lying. Her grandmother had worked the skin off her hands trying to raise her children and keep out of the way of her grandfather's bourbon-induced rages. Her mother had tried, with a pale-skinned, wide-eyed desperation, to create a pink-tinted, lacquered, crisp, pristine childhood for her daughters.

But then her daughter had to ruin everything by being crazy.

"I had hair just like yours, and my mother would brush it until it was soft and shiny. Your hair looks like a piece of polished obsidian," she said.

She could remember laughing when her mother said that. Her child-self knew that she had seen a piece of obsidian once. Well, not _actually_. Jefferson would show it to her tomorrow after school. It was an arrowhead, and he made her promise not to tell anyone as he worked all afternoon to attach it to a stick with a piece of string to make an arrow. He pulled it with a toy bow that his father had bought at the store. He had accidentally sent the arrow through Mrs. Swan's window. She and Jefferson had scampered away before they got caught. Her mother's every mention of obsidian reminded her of that delicious secret.

Jefferson had been the friend who drowned. He had drowned in a lake and she had known about it. But she hadn't been able to stop it.

After Jefferson drowned, she didn't talk anymore in the evenings when her mother brushed her hair. It was like an invisible wall had been bricked between them. But one evening (after the arrowhead, after Jefferson drowned, after the barn burned down, after the horse got so sick….) her mother's hands were shaking too much to brush Alice's hair to a soft, black shine.

"What's the matter, Mother?" Alice had asked, taking her mother's hand.

Her mother had looked at her for a long moment, and had finally just said, "I want you to be happy, Mary."

But she was lying. Her mother wanted her to be normal.

_Goodbye, Mother._

______________________________________________________________________________

She heard the halting words coming from Cynthia as they read beneath the water oak along the drive.

"'_I suppose soldiers feel like this when they are on a long and weary march,' she often said to herself. She liked the sound of the phrase, 'long and weary march.' It made her feel rather like a soldier. She had also a quaint sense of being a hostess in a castle."_

Alice stretched out beside Cynthia under the warmth of the sun, helping her with the hard words every now and again.

"'_If I live in a castle,' she argued, 'and Ermengarde was the lady of another castle, and came to see me, with knights and squires and vassals riding with her, and pennons flying, when I heard the sounds of the clar- … clari ---'"_

"Clarions, Cynthia," she said.

"… _clarions sounding outside the drawbridge I should go down to receive her, and I should spread feasts in the banquet hall and call in minstrels to sing and play and related romances.'"_

Beneath the warm sun, she felt such strength of love for her sister that she wanted to reach up and hug her and never let go. But she only closed her eyes and smiled as Cynthia continued with the passage. It was a moment she would preserve between the warmth of her palms.

"'_When she comes into the attic, I can't spread feasts, but I can tell stories, and not let her know disagreeable things. I dare say poor chat- … chate—'"_

"Chatelaines."

"…_chatelaines had to do that in times of famine, when their lands had been pillaged.' She was a proud, brave little chatelaine, and dispensed generously the one hospitality she could offer – the dreams she dreamed – the visions she saw – the imaginings which were her joy and comfort."_

At first that was what she had tried to do. She had tried to share the pictures behind her eyes with Cynthia. Her sister was so young… At first, she thought it was a story, or a game. But as she grew up, she too became fearful.

She had walked off the back porch and into the pink sunset when Alice's parents took her away. She never saw Cynthia again.

_Goodbye, Cynthia._

______________________________________________________________________________

She closed her eyes and held her necklace close to her heart. But she had finished saying goodbye. The less important beads faded away. The little house with the water oak by the drive. The bedroom with the old dollhouse. The paper dolls on the floor. Reading _A Little Princess_ beneath the warm sun under the shade of the water oak. The library with the musty smelling books and papers. The dresser with the perfume bottles and light-reflecting jewels. The silver brush. The back porch. The old creaky swing. The pink sunset. Mother. Father. Cynthia.

No, the central bead was what she held in the palms of her hand, what the warmth of her fingers protected. The central bead, the chief jewel, of her necklace was a face with blond hair and blue eyes.

She smiled softly. She even knew his name.

_Jasper. _

But she would bend for Jasper. She knew she would meet him soon. And she would do whatever he wished. She knew it was the only way to leave this place of darkness and the pale-eyed man. If she behaved perfectly for Jasper, he could save her.

"You don't have to bend, Alice. You don't have to break. You can fight."

She laughed and laughed. She had to _obey_ Jasper to be free. Once Jasper saved her she was free to be Alice again.

She would fight to be free. She would bend to be free. She would break to be free.

_Jasper. _

She whispered it to herself until the pale-eyed man came back into her room.

"Bend or break, Mary."

She couldn't see the blows coming in the dark. She wondered vaguely why he still bothered to strike her. He knew she was leaving. He had failed. He wouldn't be able to get her to break before the wedding.

"What is your name, Mary?" he asked fiercely.

There was a new kind of ferocity to his blows and she gasped from the pain. But she didn't cry.

"What is your name, Mary?"

She felt fear for the first time when she realized what that did to him. She had made him fail. It wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot. It was only just beginning.

"Bend or break, Mary."

"You don't have to bend, Mary. You don't have to break. You can fight."

_She wouldn't break she wouldn't break she wouldn't break she wouldn't break…_

"What is your name, Mary?"

My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice.

_Jasper. _

_Please save me…_

**Please review and tell me what you think! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N I hope you like the Alice/Jasper interaction. :o) Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.**

Chapter Five: Ghosts Along the Wall

___________________________________________________________________________

_Beautiful Dreamer … _

_Queen of my song… _

____________________________________________________________________________

Jasper was a bit nervous. Mr. Brandon was bringing Mary to meet him and his family today. He didn't usually fidget, but he fussed with his tie until Edward told him to relax. Esme smiled at him from across the room, and Jasper calmed slightly.

The doorbell rang. Esme stood up, but Carlisle patted her arm and reached for the door.

"Brandon! Come on in. And this must be Mary," Carlisle said.

Jasper walked over to her. Holy hell, but she was tiny! Her short black hair barely came up to his chest. He bent over slightly and whispered, "Hello."

Then she did something he did not expect. She stood on her tiptoes, and he instinctively leaned down even further.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time," she whispered in a slightly hoarse voice.

Jasper was startled, and all he could reply was, "I'm sorry, ma'am," like the good Southern gentleman Esme had trained him to be.

"Not ma'am," she replied. "Alice."

Then she shook his hand shyly and moved over to meet the rest of his family.

He had never seen anyone so small before. She had thin, fine-boned hands, and he could see the flutter of her pulse against her neck. Her cheekbones protruded slightly from her pale face, the slim, blue weave of her veins showing up beneath her white skin.

God, she was beautiful.

Jasper stopped and watched her. At first, he thought there was a tenseness to the energy that seemed to shimmer around her, like the coiled spring of a gun about to explode. The straightness of her back seemed to have an edge that was delicate, but delicate like the sharp, raw end of scalpel.

That was what Jasper thought at first, but then he looked closer and saw that there was a strange lilting lift to her walk. He had never really paid attention to walking before…. He just walked. But the way she moved made him think that she put a great amount of pleasure – took a great amount of pleasure – in the simple movement. He had the odd feeling that she would look fluid even when standing still. Just because she loved the whirl and swish of air around her legs and arms that much.

It made him think of the old meaning behind the word "charisma" – someone filled with grace. Someone who by their very presence was a kind of grace, whose touch lent a kind of excitement and clarity to every moment, every activity. Someone who managed to maintain an awareness of the preciousness of each passing second and unconsciously pass that awareness on. Someone who filled that frail vessel called the present with meaning.

Nobody understood it. Maybe nobody even realized it. But it was there … like a ribbon at the edge of the eye.

And yet, when he looked into her gray eyes, he could see that they were slightly unfocused. She was looking beyond him to something he could not see. It was as if, while she made the present for everyone else that much brighter, she herself did not share in the gift. She was looking ahead to something else. Strange…

And then he realized that although there was this shimmering charisma with every movement that she made, it was colorless. Glitter but no substance. He couldn't see even the faintest gleam of a color at the edge of his eyes, even when he blinked.

But then he forgot about the colorless ribbons. He forgot about the blankness of her eyes. He forgot everything when she smiled.

"Hello, Mary," Esme said, taking the girl's hand. She stiffened slightly and looked at Jasper.

"Mother … Her name is Alice," said Jasper softly. Alice smiled at him and took his outstretched hand.

"Well, then. It's wonderful to meet you … Alice," said Esme in the gentlest voice Jasper had ever heard her use. Alice relaxed slightly at its sound.

Mr. Brandon had faded into the background so much that Jasper barely discerned the lines of anger coming from him. His emotions had been so limp and weak that the slight strengthening of black coming from him went unnoticed against the emotions of the rest of Jasper's family.

Indeed, Carlisle seemed content, and Esme was so happy she had tears in her eyes. Even Edward looked glad – the yellow strands coming from him were stronger than Jasper had ever seen. Of course, they strengthened even more when Alice singled Edward out to be the receiver of her own particular brand of greeting. She stood in front of him for a brief moment with her eyes closed, and then gave him the biggest hug Jasper had ever seen anyone give, almost knocking Edward over with the force of her slight weight. He looked shocked, but then his mouth moved and became a sheepish grin.

Jasper almost could not contain his laugher. It seemed perfect that Alice would behave this way to his brother, someone who didn't usually reach out and touch others. Truthfully, Edward always placed himself on the edge of conversations and family meetings – typically close to a door or a staircase – as if needing a swift avenue of escape. He was rarely physically affectionate towards anyone, in a reserved, almost old-fashioned respect for personal space. But Alice didn't seem to care.

After meeting Edward, Alice returned to Jasper, and stood close to his side for the rest of the visit.

And it wasn't until she left and the warmth of her smile was just a memory that Jasper realized she had only spoken that one time. To him.

He wondered for hours why that might be. Finally, he gave up and rubbed his eyes and sighed. All he knew was that he had to see her again.

______________________________________________________________________________

"What did you think of her, Edward?" Jasper asked hesitantly when Mary … no _Alice_ … left with her father later that afternoon.

Edward smiled at him before shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Jasper wasn't sure why he was asking Edward. He and Edward tended to live on the periphery of the family. Jasper was never exactly sure why. Perhaps it was because of the tinge of pessimism that always seemed to color the edges of Edward's emotions. He was alone, in a family that seemed determined to exist in terms of pairs.

And Edward would never admit it – not ever – but Jasper also saw the faint hint of navy blue whenever he blinked his eyes. Loneliness. Of course, being Edward, he could not deal honestly with his loneliness, so he ignored it. He played his piano. He read. He avoided physical contact, only really allowing Esme to touch him. If no one came to the edge of his self-imposed exile then maybe he could forget that it was an exile at all.

As for Jasper, his experience in the Great Massacre had scarred him. It was like a heavy burn across his chest. He didn't want a doctor to change the dressings. He didn't want a nurse to fuss over him. He just wanted to lie away and let the burn heal.

So here they were, two men on the edges of a family, one separated by his loneliness and the other by his memories.

But, even so, Edward was very perceptive, almost seeming to know what people were going to say before they said it. That was why Jasper was asking him now.

"She is beautiful Jasper," Edward answered honestly. "There is something about her that draws one in, isn't there?"

Jasper laughed. Alice's greeting had apparently shaken Edward up a little. Jasper thought it was a good thing.

However, he was _still_ a little surprised by Edward's optimism. He now thought a bit more about the yellow lines of happiness that had streaked out from Edward during Alice's visit. Maybe Alice could pull Edward back into the heart of the family….

"And you love her already," Edward concluded matter-of-factly. Edward had made it no secret that he believed phenomena like "love at first sight" never happened in real life. Jasper raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, don't pretend to be surprised," said Edward. "Your eyes are so easy to read it's almost no fun at all."

Of course … Jasper had wanted to see what Edward perceived. He just would prefer if it was focused on Alice and not on _him_. Indeed, Jasper found himself a bit surprised by Edward's observation. His brother tended to over-analyze things so much that Jasper underestimated the scope of that perceptiveness frequently.

"Thank you, Edward," said Jasper simply.

Edward, surprising Jasper again, reached out and shook his hand.

______________________________________________________________________________

When Jasper reached his home he paced back to his library. He sat in front of the fire for a long time. It felt nice to be with Alice today. He felt normal. Alive …

_He was hunkered down in a trench, waiting. Just waiting. They never told you on the recruitment posters how long you would have to just sit and wait. Wait for enemy shrapnel and machine gun fire. Wait for orders to cross in droves into No Man's Land and pray that you make it to the other side. The Great Massacre was made of short, intense fights for just a few miles of land. Millions of kids died to claim just a few feet of territory. _

_He looked to his buddy next to him. William Throckmorten. From Big Sandy, Tennessee. 19-years-old. He always saw Willie cussing before the word came to go over the line. Cussing because of the food. _

_After that, there is always fog. All colors are stripped away and everything is tinged by shades of gray. Unless, of course, he sees blood. That shows up against the gray background with perfect clarity. He wishes the noise would fade way, but he can hear the sounds of machine guns and kids calling for their mommas with perfect clarity. He could hear the sharp whistling of shrapnel overhead. As long as he could hear it, he knew he was okay. The odd whistling ceased when it was heading straight for you. That meant that when a strange silence enveloped him, he felt his stomach drop. He motioned for Willie to pull back, but Willie didn't see him. Jasper started running towards him, knowing that he might be too late. _

_The world went sideways, and he lay stunned, with his nose pressed into the dirt. His back was on fire… Someone, please make it stop! He groaned and moved his head before becoming perfectly still. Willie's glazed eyes were staring at the sky. _

Jasper woke up, shivering although the fire still flickered in front of him. Always the same nightmare.

Willie Throckmorten. 1899-1918. 19-years-old.

It was almost Jasper Whitlock Hale. 1891-1918. 27-years-old.

In his mind he could see the two of them: Alice and Willie. They were linked together. By meeting Alice he had tried to live today for Willie, but he felt guilty now. Guilty that he was alive and they were not.

He rubbed his eyes, and felt the ghosts of all the kids from the Great Massacre in the back of his mind. He sat for a long moment, and then pulled out his favorite poem: "In Flanders Field." John MaCrae. 1872-1918. 46 years old. Died of pneumonia. Boulogne-sur-Mer, France.

In Flanders Field the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our places; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

There were the larks again. Alice's larks. Alice's sunshine. Carlisle had been right. She did have a sunshine inside of her.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Jasper was interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it to find Esme waiting on the front step. She looked at the flickering firelight and at the book in Jasper's hands.

"Am I bothering you, son? What are you doing?" she asked hesitantly.

"Oh, nothing Esme. Just reading," he responded.

He had always thought before that reading this poetry helped him. It helped him deal with the memories. But now, as the ghosts of countless soldiers filtered through the room, he wondered. He felt dead inside, well, dead except for the strange feeling of guilt that had settled like shrapnel in the pit of his stomach. The happy glow from Alice had long since disappeared.

But he asked, "How did you think today went, Esme?" changing the subject.

"I thought you looked very happy, Jasper," she said warmly. "She seems like a beautiful girl, although much quieter than I would have expected!" She laughed, but her brow was puckered slightly. Jasper noticed a slight gray tinge to her emotions that reminded him of worry.

Each of the members of his family reminded Jasper of a certain color. It was their dominant emotion. Carlisle always had a thin yellow trace of compassion and humanity at the edge of his emotions. Edward always had that slender edge of pessimism and loneliness. Emmett had a bright orange glow of good humor and joy that rioted with the force of his other emotions. Rosalie's ribbons always hinted at a fiery red color of tenacity. But Esme was different. Esme always exuded the warm, deep scarlet color of passionate love. Her ribbons streaked out and connected each of them in a strong web of love. The edge of worry that now clouded her emotions was unusual, to say the least.

"What's the matter, Esme? Is something wrong?" he asked.

She smiled at him, "I always forget how much you seem to see, son. It never ceases to amaze me how you appear to feel what I'm feeling precisely when I feel it."

Jasper shifted uncomfortably. "Is something wrong, Esme?" he asked again, avoiding her earlier comment.

"I'm not sure, Jasper," she said. "There was something about Alice that reminded me of how I behaved around people before I met Carlisle," she finally admitted.

"What do you mean, Esme?" Jasper asked in confusion. He had never really thought about a Before-Carlisle time for Esme. They had always just seemed to exist together, but it occurred to Jasper for the first time that they must have met _sometime_. After all, they weren't always married, no matter how close they were that it seemed like they had always been together.

"Oh, it's probably silly. It was just something in the way she carried herself … with her back so straight," she explained, embarrassment coloring her face.

Jasper, grasping for an explanation, said, "Ah, I think I see. You must have been a rambunctious child when you were young. Straightening your back and doing whatever you wanted, no matter what your mother told you?" he said, making the statement into a question.

Esme laughed weakly and said, "Yes … that must be it. I _was_ a little hellion when I was a child." She paused for a moment and then smiled, "Do you know the story of how I first met Carlisle?"

Jasper shook his head and grinned.

"Well, I was climbing a tree – strictly against my mother's orders, you understand – and once I reached the topmost branches …"

"Because you _had_ to reach the top," Jasper interrupted.

"Of course," said Esme seriously, her mouth crinkling a bit at the corners. "What other way is there to climb a tree?"

"Oh, none whatsoever," Jasper agreed, nodding solemnly.

"Well, I was reading, and was startled when my mother called me in for supper. I lost my footing and fell all the way to the bottom," she said.

Jasper winced in sympathy, and said, "What happened?"

"I broke my leg," Esme grinned. "Shattered it actually. It was a break one could be proud of. My father drove me to the doctor's late that evening – grumbling the whole time about trees and recklessness. He had had to bear the brunt of my mother's exasperation, you understand. When we reached the doctor's home, Carlisle was the one who set my leg," she concluded.

Jasper chuckled, and Esme, laughing as well, said, "Well, you can laugh. It hurt like the dickens when he set it, but I think I fell in love right then. I was sixteen."

"What happened?" Jasper was confused. He knew that Esme and Carlisle had married many years later, when Esme was in her late twenties.

"He moved to another practice in another city before I could declare my undying love," Esme teased, but Jasper could feel the faint memory of pain of in her words.

"We didn't meet again until after the Spanish-American War. I was in a new city, teaching actually, when we met again. And now here we are," she concluded simply. Jasper got the feeling that she was leaving quite a bit out of her story.

Esme stood up and kissed Jasper on the cheek. "I must return home," she said. "It's about time for me to start Carlisle's supper."

When Jasper stood up, he uncovered the book of poetry he had been attempting to hide against the arm rest of the chair. Esme picked it up and studied it for awhile.

"Sometimes books can be a kind of salvation," she paused for a long moment. "But books can also be an escape for us. Try not to fall in so deeply that you forget to live. Trust me on this, son. If you can learn one thing from me I would want you to remember not disappear from life. I think that was what I was trying to do when I climbed that tree," she said wistfully.

Jasper nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground. He wondered what his mother had been attempting to disappear from. He opened his mouth to ask, but then Esme said, "And don't wait as long as I did to declare my undying love," she teased gently. He knew by her tone that the conversation was over and that Esme would say nothing else.

He kissed her on the cheek and followed her to the door. When she was gone, Jasper paced back to his library. He stood in the muted halo of the firelight for a long time. The book was still open to "In Flanders Field," and he could see the black words.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high,

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

He needed to leave his library. He needed to move away from the periphery of the family. He needed to move inward, to its heart.

He picked up the book of poetry and threw it into the fire.

**Please Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N I've tried to deal with several plot issues in this chapter. I can suspend my disbelief only up to a point, and I'm afraid that this story defies realism sometimes. I can't quite help asking myself, "Seriously? Would someone seriously treat a young girl like this?" Maybe it's because I've watched too much CSI, but there is a point where I have to answer yes. There _are_ really horrible people out there... **

**It's like I talked about in the first chapter -- most people are horrible without realizing it. Alice's father (and mother and sister) don't _intend_ to be cruel. They've justified whatever they might be doing with really good (to their mind) reasons. I've tried to hint at those reasons in past chapters, and I hope those hints have made them seem a bit deeper as characters (there's nothing I hate more than a character who is _Eeeevilll _-- for no reason). **

**However, now that I'm getting into the final battle of wills between Alice and James, I find that I'm writing a character who is just _Eeeevillll_. I find that it's very difficult to properly describe the kind of evil that James executes so chillingly. I've tried to keep the physical description of him similar to what SM has in the books -- James looks so ordinary. I've always thought his "ordinariness" was what made his actions seem so chilling. But as I've tried to describe what might be his motivations or his phychological state, I find that I can't. I don't know why James acts the way he does. Heck, I don't even _understand_ someone like James. But I've done my best, and I hope it's believable. **

**Thankfully, very few of us really come into contact with someone like James. Thank God they're rare. **

**I also hope that I've differentiated adequately between Alice and Jasper's "voices." There is so little of Alice's habitual humor in this story that I've tried to capture that essential joie de vivre in her quirky observations and vocabulary. I hope that Jasper's slightly more steady style of narrating contrasts well enough. Hopefully, after Alice gets away from the asylum, she will slowly return to the zany, shopaholic Alice that we all know and love. :o)**

**I want to thank everyone who has reviewed so far! Really, it has made my day. :o)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Six: Predator and Prey

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_List' while I woo thee … _

_With soft melody…_

______________________________________________________________________________

He had been more beautiful than she had even imagined, despite the extreme clarity of her visions of him. He was tall, and his hair ruffled slightly, as if he had run his fingers through it … and yet his hands had rested quietly by side all the length of her visit. She had loved his blue eyes … Blue eyes tended to look shallow, but his were a dark navy. They were serious, intense, deep.

But she had had to be so careful when she met him. The purplish bruises that roped around her arms and legs made feeling anything other than pain and fear difficult. But she had tried to shove it all aside and revel in the presence of a family whose future seemed to shimmer with _possibility_.

It clung to them, like a scent.

They were so unlike her family, whose future always seemed to be set in stone. After all, when you concentrate, with a deep determination, to make your crazy daughter normal, it sort of limits the range of possibilities in your future. Alice could see her mother's pale-skinned, wide-eyed desperation to create a pink-tinted, lacquered, pristine childhood for her daughters … her father's weak-kneed, slouched-spine, stuttering yet _utter_ determination to create The Daughter Who Could Be Married … Cynthia's marriage (bat-out-of-hell escape) from the suffocating little house with the water oak on the drive – the Cullens were strangely willing to live and let live. That element of control was missing. Because they did not try to control others, their own futures were … fluid and exciting. By contrast, her family's was just static.

Carlisle, of course, wouldn't want to control her from a deeply-held philosophy that perceived that strange uniqueness (he would say _blessedness_) of every living thing. Not everyone was able to maintain that kind of respect for the crying child, the patient teacher, the man on the noose, the playful father, even the scheming thief. He would call it "recognizing the image of God" within each of them. Alice just thought he was able to _see_ people, instead of just look at them. Whatever the case, Alice was not ever just a face in the crowd to him.

As for Esme, Esme didn't think. Esme _loved_. She wouldn't want to control Alice because in her world love and control did not belong in the same state. It was because of something that had happened to her ... Alice knew enough to know that … But she didn't know what. For Esme, to love meant to release who she loved, like bird is released into the air. There is no hood, no leash. Only air and sky and clouds and sunshine above.

Alice cocked her head slightly as she thought … Edward was different. He couldn't fool her. She wouldn't be surprised if Edward reached for that control. But she knew he would do it from the best of intentions. For protection. For love. He would push for the _best_ future for whoever he loved (Unlike her father. Unlike her mother. Unlike Cynthia. They did not want the best for Alice. They just wanted her Gone. Married. Out of the little house with the water oak on the drive). She closed her eyes…. His future was vaguer than the others … But he would learn before the end. "_The road to hell is paved with good intentions_," she would tell him. She had brown hair and brown eyes… "_I love you_," she would tell him …. And then the threads of his future would shimmer just like his family's.

And Jasper … Jasper would save her. And in saving Alice, he would save himself … She held her head in her hands and concentrated …. The scars would fade … A uniform burned … His future would shimmer again. Just like hers. It would not be static. It would not be controlled. Not by her father. Not by her mother. Not by Cynthia. Not by the pale-eyed man.

She would be free.

Free in the air and the sky and the clouds and the sunshine.

______________________________________________________________________________

But she knew what would happen if she tried to tell Jasper before the wedding.

_Please help me. He's hurting me. _

The picture behind her eyes was very clear. Her father would choke and ahem and um and uh and erm his way though an explanation. Carlisle and Jasper would be suspicious, but not suspicious enough. Carlisle perhaps the most …. Because he had seen it before. But Jasper wouldn't want to believe it.

So she would return. And _he_ would hurt her. Badly. For trying to tell.

______________________________________________________________________________

He was like a stalker with his prey. He liked hunting animals. Like the feeling in the pit of his stomach when they died. When they bent to _his_ will. That was why he liked working in this dark hospital.

No light.

The patients just wanted _out_, damn it, if they were lucid enough to think at all. They did everything _he_ asked of them. Everything – anything – just to go home. She was the only one who resisted.

"Bend or break, Mary."

My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice.

Because she was only an animal to him.

Not even a name.

______________________________________________________________________________

She never thought it would be like this, but her visions were what saved her.

Because, you see, you might not be insane starting out, but this place tended to drive you against the padded walls eventually. It was what scared her the most …. How easily she could spiral downwards into a dark series of actions repeated over and over again, looking for a different result.

The doctors weren't really doctors either. Doctors are supposed to heal, not _push_ you towards the straight-jacket. But here, they didn't care if you weren't crazy. They assumed that eventually you would be. They _tried_ to make you insane, even if they did so unconsciously.

Who cared about her … Freud would have a field day with _them_.

Because Alice wasn't crazy. She knew she wasn't because she knew that her visions were _real_. They weren't a hallucination, no matter what the man with the pale eyes said. _They came true_. That's what she told herself when the medications made her see things, and she had to force her mind to separate the true visions from the medicine-induced haze. That's what she told herself when the "counseling sessions" became more and more difficult as the doctors needled and poked and prodded and tricked and psychoanalyzed her to admit that she made her visions up … or even that she had no visions at all.

She never gave them the satisfaction of compliance though. Instead, she smiled with bright innocence and opened wide who-me eyes and said (yet again) that she had absolutely no idea what they meant. Of course she didn't have visions of the future. That would be impossible, right?

And the doctors didn't really know what to do anymore. She very, very rarely made slip-ups like she did when she was younger. But they kept at her, several doctors interrogating her at once, trying to trip up the desperately preserved lies that protected the essential truth of her sanity.

Because admitting is the first step to recovery.

And eventually they became so perplexed at her carefully maintained normality that they began to poke at that. Her reaction to the stresses of the place was so unusual that they assumed she must be crazy because of the. After all, no one else had ever been quite as calm against the combined strength of their psychoanalyses and medications and padded rooms and straight jackets and restraints.

So now she was insane because she was normal. It figured.

From every action comes an equal and opposite reaction. They twisted the reactions, trying to change her actions. If her reactions could only be changed ….

­­­­­­­­­______________________________________________________________________________

But they couldn't (they _wouldn't_) and that's why she was afraid.

He was excited when she fought because he knew that the victory would be that much sweeter when she finally caved like the rest of them. And he felt confident in his eventual victory. He thought in terms of size. Mary was small. He was big.

She snorted to herself.

Well, he was bigger than she was at any rate. Mary might be small, but Alice wasn't because Alice was a _person_, not a shriveled up paper doll of a woman created by her father and her mother and her sister. Mary was not real. Alice was.

And Alice would fight fire with ice.

He was trying to turn her into a thing. Or an animal. And she would do everything she could to maintain her humanity, her worth, her dignity.

Back straight.

Do not cry.

Do not scream.

Stand tall.

Face composed.

Do not speak.

"'_Whatever comes,' she said, 'cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in clothes of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.'"_

So she sat on the ground, back straight, legs tucked beneath her. She closed her eyes and felt her necklace beating warmly within her chest. She cupped her palms over her heart and let the vision of Jasper fill her mind.

Be strong for Jasper.

_Jasper …_

______________________________________________________________________________

A headache was building behind her eyes. She knew it was one of her important visions. Only the important ones came with consciousness. The less important ones came in dreams.

It was dark. Not even a hint of light came through the closed slats covering her window. All she saw was the pale-eyed man illuminated briefly against the open door when he walked into her room. There was a crème-colored dress in his hand. It clashed with the bright white of his coat.

"Your father brought me your wedding dress, Mary," he said. "Many congratulations on the event tomorrow."

She was silent and still.

"What do you think, Mary? Isn't it beautiful?"

She was silent and still.

"Why won't you answer me, Mary? Why won't you say, 'Yes sir'?"

She was silent and still.

And all she felt was pain when the vision faded.

Her hands shook against the legs tucked beneath her when the picture behind her eyes drifted away. For a brief moment, she felt like crying and giving up. Then she saw Jasper's face again and she held on to it so tightly her temples throbbed with the weight of her concentration.

______________________________________________________________________________

She wished she knew what brought the pale-eyed man to this place. It certainly wasn't a glamorous or an easy job. His pay was minimal. The hours were long. The patients difficult. The breakthroughs always out of reach. After all, the insane healed the slowest. There was no statute of limitation on being crazy. She had pondered it for years since she had come here, but never once did she get close to finding an answer.

She finally supposed that some people were just _drawn_ to that kind of atmosphere. The dark rooms. The white coats. The vials of medicine. The sick, weak, helpless patients. The complete control.

Some might be drawn for altruistic reasons. They wanted to help. But there were so many other places to help that were not coated in such layers of grime, dust, insanity, fear.

Orphanages for one thing. Children were cute. Or pounds. Animals were cute.

The insane were not so cute.

It took a special kind of altruism to bring someone here. But it also took a special kind of coldblooded glee in someone else's pain.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

When the pale-eyed man came in that night she neither asked for nor gave quarter. If she obeyed him easily now, she would find it even easier the next time, and soon she would be scurrying around like _his_ animal. Like _his_ thing. She didn't want survival at any cost, no matter how painful it might become.

She was the only patient he saw now. His obsession was building, mounting to new satanic heights.

"Bend or break, Mary," he whispered, before the games began.

"Get me a glass of iced tea, Mary."

"No."

"Say 'Yes sir' to me, Mary."

"No."

"What is your name, Mary?"

"My name is Alice."

"You will learn not to fight me."

She spat at him in the dark, satisfied when she heard him growl.

"You will _not_ fight me."

She slapped him then. No one had ever dared to strike him. Except her.

She was outflanked by an overwhelming enemy and had little strength with which to do battle, but she refused to surrender.

_She wouldn't surrender_.

_____________________________________________________________________________

After he left for the night, and the bruises on her legs and arms ceased throbbing somewhat (he never struck her face), one of the nurses came to bring her supper.

She was her favorite nurse, the best kind of nurse there could be (especially in this place) – the motherly kind, the kind with a soft, round middle perfect for a comforting hug stolen while the doctors were out of the room.

She had only seen her once, when the light of the door illuminated her. The nurse had red hair, and wrinkles along her eyes. This nurse was the one who had suggested to her father taking Mary off the medication that made her so sick. This nurse was the one who, when she was on rotation, would come with the pale-eyed man to her room, protecting Alice with her presence.

She was the one who, when Alice asked her if she thought she was really crazy, had whispered, "No dear," and dropped three hot tears on Alice's hand.

But it didn't matter anymore. Alice was finished with everything.

"Hello, Mary … I've missed seeing you today," she said.

Silence.

"Here is your supper, Mary. Doesn't it look good?"

Silence.

"Won't you please eat, Mary?" the nurse's voice soft and pleading and desperate in the night.

Silence.

As hungry as she was, her choices were few, and compliance not among them. She kept trying different tactics, but the pale-eyed man kept changing his methods. His methods for breaking her. After five years at the asylum, she had few options left. She had no avenue of escape.

He could make her do a lot of things, but he couldn't make her eat.

**Please review! **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Yea! Here's Jasper again! I hope everyone likes what I'm doing with Jasper's family. The fic is about to focus almost exclusively on Jasper and Alice, and I wanted time to describe the relationships between all of them. Also in this chapter I go more into the background for all of them. It got kind of detailed. *Grin* I have this timeline mapped out and everything (you're rubbing off on me OstentatiousQuerida!). I'll include it at the bottom. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Seven: A Broken Girl

______________________________________________________________________________

_Gone are the cares of …_

_Life's busy throng …_

_____________________________________________________________________________

Jasper did see Alice again.

She had come two more times to see him and his family. Emmett had been able to meet her this last time. Jasper grinned to himself. Alice had charmed Emmett in much the same way she had Edward. She had closed her eyes for a brief moment, smiling softly to herself the whole time, and had then launched herself into Emmett's arms. It took all of Emmett's years playing football to instinctively catch her before she crashed into him. But unlike Edward, Emmett thought her particular brand of greeting was amusing, and had given one of his warm, deep, belly laughs. Everyone had joined in … except Alice. She was silent as always, but she gave one gentle little twirl in excitement. After seeing it, Jasper wondered if she had ever been a dancer….

Rosalie still had not been able to meet her. She was on bed rest because of the baby, the only one who could not meet Jasper's gray-eyed girl. This last meeting had worried him somewhat, however. As he watched her, he felt pinpricks along his arms. Something wasn't right.

For someone so light and happy, she still spoke so little. He wasn't sure why, but he kept expecting her to be a bit more vivacious (the way she moved, the way she smiled, the way she spoke – when she spoke – all pointed to a personality that delighted in the bright, the unexpected, the free) … and was always surprised when she wasn't. There was an odd … obedience … in every thing she did. If her father or Jasper even so much as voiced a vague request, then she ran over to fulfill it, even if it was something trivial, like getting a glass of iced tea.

Jasper rubbed his eyes. He was used to paying more attention to the shades of color at the edge of his eyes. Watching body language – being forced to pay attention to the physical, non-verbal signs of the people around him – was completely foreign to him. Being around Alice made him realize just how much he had come to rely on his ribbons. It didn't take much work, really, to interpret a color or a taste.

But Jasper was trying, and he noticed that there was something strange about the way she carried herself. If anyone came near her, then her eyes became blank and she straightened her back. She never flinched when he touched her, but the tenseness in her muscles usually made him take a step back.

He grasped at some kind of explanation. He wasn't used to being this in the dark – but he still couldn't see a hint of color when he was around her. Maybe his height made her nervous (only her color was never nervous). He was over six feet tall, and her father was a small man. Maybe Alice just wasn't used to it…. He shook his head. It seemed like a flimsy excuse, even to him, but it was the only one he had.

He just wasn't around her enough! If he could see her for more than three minutes in a meeting with his family, then he might be able to figure out what was wrong. As it was, he had to guess. God, he had to _guess_.

There was something strange about Mr. Brandon as well. Something that felt a bit off… Jasper wasn't sure what it was, but even Edward seemed uneasy around him. He wondered why Carlisle didn't notice. Of course, Carlisle was always willing to give the benefit of the doubt. It was what made him a great man – being able to take each person on their own terms, and not in terms of judgment. Jasper and Edward, while not necessarily wiser, tended to be a bit more willing to accept the dirt beneath the green grass.

_"He's a good man," Carlisle would always say. Often that was the end of it. _

_But occasionally – very occasionally – Edward would respond, "Maybe, but he has dirt caked to the bottom of his shoe just like the rest of us." _

Edward said it this time about Mr. Brandon.

Jasper determined to watch Mr. Brandon more closely. Maybe he could figure out what was wrong. Unfortunately, he realized just a moment later, he would not be seeing Mr. Brandon again, unless he came to the wedding. Alice would not make another visit until Jasper saw her coming toward him down a church aisle. When Jasper protested, her father explained (after six minutes of stuttering) that Alice desired a few days alone to prepare herself for her new life as Jasper's wife, hinting that she had done this with a fine show of maidenly modesty and reserve.

Jasper snorted at the idea of Alice putting on _anything_ with a fine show of maidenly modesty and reserve.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jasper walked to Carlisle's practice one evening two days before the wedding. Mr. Brandon was pushing for a quick wedding, and since Jasper was fine with the idea, he accepted. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to get Alice away from her father as soon as possible.

The summer evening was humid, although the wind coming in from the ocean cooled the quivering air slightly. Jasper pushed the sleeves of his shirt up on his forearms. He walked into the office, satisfied that the air wasn't as warm as it was outside. Carlisle was sitting at his desk in the back office, looking at files. Edward was standing behind him, filing paperwork into the old cabinet. Edward would be starting his junior year at university in the fall. He was planning on pursuing medicine, so he helped out at Carlisle's practice whenever he was home from school for the summer.

"Hello, Jasper!" said Carlisle, rising and grasping his son's hand. "What brings you out here?"

"Oh, this and that," said Jasper vaguely. Edward spun around and gave him a hard look. Ah, Jasper would _never_ be able to fool Edward….

Carlisle, however, took Jasper's words at face value and jokingly asked, "Are you enjoying the summer away from your young students?" Jasper taught history at a local prep school. He regaled his family frequently with stories of the pranks his students had pulled in his year teaching there since returning from Europe.

Jasper grinned slightly and said, "Now, I wouldn't want this to go outside the four walls of this office, but I do kind of miss them. It seems awfully dull at the school preparing for the fall term."

Carlisle laughed and even Edward chuckled a bit.

They spoke about everyday things until a slight pause in the conversation gave Jasper the impetus he needed.

"Carlisle … Have you noticed anything … odd … about Alice?" he asked. Edward stopped what he was doing as soon as Jasper asked and looked at him intently.

Despite his blind spot that consistently focused on the good in people at the expense of noticing the bad, Carlisle's physician mind tended to pick up on the physical clues that Jasper, and even Edward, missed. He was trained to look _at_ people, not at the glow of colors they transmitted. In this, his observations were invaluable.

Carlisle's eyes became pensive as he thought. "Well, she seems a bit less healthy than what I remember. Oh, she was never as strong and tall and brown as her sister, but she moved a lot as a child. I remember that it seemed like she danced all the time," he smiled.

Jasper waited, and then Carlisle rubbed his forehead, "She does seem a bit too thin though. I seem to recall her being very ill a few years ago. Perhaps the after-effects of her illness?"

"Do you know what that illness was?" Jasper asked hesitantly.

"I'm not sure. I'm not her primary-care physician, so I have nothing on file for her. And I can't ask one of my colleagues because I think her father took her away for her treatment. And even if I wanted to ask someone, I couldn't because of doctor-patient confidentiality," he sighed. Jasper saw the faded mouse-brown color of frustration.

"Carlisle … how much do you _really_ know about her?" asked Jasper hesitantly.

Carlisle shrugged. "Not much," he said with a worried frown.

Carlisle's frown became deeper as he thought. "There's nothing about her actions that reminds me of Esme or Rosalie when I first knew them … but now that I think about it, something does seem a bit … off," he said.

Jasper still didn't know what happened that caused Esme and Rosalie to have that strange connection, that peace in each other's company that linked them with such strong yellow ribbons. He sighed when Carlisle touched his arm.

"It could be nothing, Jasper. Do you still wish to marry her?"

"Yes," Jasper said, putting a bit too much force into the word.

Carlisle tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile, "Well, then we'll just have to watch her carefully. Try not to worry."

Jasper sighed, and knew that might almost be too much to ask.

"It's only a few more days to wait," said Edward, finally speaking up. Jasper nodded, not feeling really comforted.

Edward tried again after running his hand through his hair, making it stand up more than usual, "And you know we'll be here to help with anything … with whatever might be wrong."

That really didn't make Jasper feel better either.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and tried one more time, "Don't worry … I'm sure it's nothing … And even if it is …"

"Edward, just stop," said Carlisle.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jasper went to see Rosalie and Emmett the day before the wedding, concerned over how sick Rosalie had been. He was happy for them, of course. Emmett and Rosalie had been married for over six years, and had not been able to have a baby until now. He knew that she would want to see him before the marriage, especially since she could not attend.

Jasper placed his hand on Rosalie's forehead and stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Hello. How are you feeling?"

She smiled at him and said, "Bored. There isn't anything to do in bed. I've even done all the mending…"

Emmett interrupted and said, "Yes, and you know she must be bored out of her mind if she's driven to _sewing_."

"Don't worry, Rosalie. I'll stop by the school's library and bring you some new books," Jasper said.

They all chuckled a bit. Rosalie didn't _mind_ reading …. If she took the chance to consider it objectively. She just preferred being outside or doing something with her hands. It was a long-standing joke in the Cullen family that she would rather help Emmett with his carpentry work than stay inside doing "wifely" things like cleaning, sewing, or reading. Of course, although she didn't like being the "little woman in the kitchen," she wanted to be barefoot and pregnant more than anything else. She never had to tell Jasper (or even Edward) that. Indeed, Rosalie rarely had to tell anyone anything. It was always so obvious in her actions what she wanted.

And everyone knew she wanted a baby.

After a moment, Rosalie's face sobered and she clutched Jasper's hand.

"Be good to her, Jasper. Please be gentle," she whispered fiercely. Jasper was surprised to see lines of sadness and pain streaking out from her.

"Rosalie…" he whispered, but stopped when he saw Emmett motioning him to leave the room. Jasper walked out of the room, and Emmett shut the door. Jasper waited against the wall until Emmett finally came out.

"I'm sorry about that, Jasper," said Emmett seriously.

Jasper studied his brother's face for a few seconds. Emmett was rarely serious, but the bright yellow-orange of good nature which usually tinged the edges of his emotions was absent for the first time that Jasper could remember.

Emmett hesitated for a moment and then stammered, "Rose is nervous about having a baby."

"Why?" Jasper asked softly, frankly shocked. No one had had to tell him that Rosalie had wanted to be a mother since telling Emmett "I do."

"I … can't really tell you the whole story. Rose asked me not to. Only Carlisle and Esme know everything," Emmett paused.

"I guess I can tell you this though… Something really bad happened to Rose before she married me. And she's … terrified that if the baby … is a girl … that the same thing will happen to our daughter," Emmett ran his fingers through his hair and paused.

"On the other hand, she's worried that if the baby is a boy, then she'll be a … bad mother … and the boy will grow up to be … like the ma – person … who hurt her," Emmett explained haltingly.

Jasper didn't really know what to say. What could have happened to make Rosalie, the strongest person he knew, fear something this much?

He finally said the only thing he could, "Oh."

Emmett gave him a small smile. "Thank you for understanding, Jasper. Come by and see us as soon as you can after the wedding."

Jasper nodded and turned to leave. "And Jasper?" Emmett called. Jasper turned around and looked at his brother. "Be sure to take care of that little girl, just like Rose told you, or I'll come find you and kick your ass."

Jasper grinned at Emmett, nodded and left.

______________________________________________________________________________

As Jasper walked home he passed the old lighthouse. There weren't many lighthouses now on the coast. This one was special. He liked to pass it as he walked home.

_"Do you know what this is?" Carlisle asked one evening long ago ... when Jasper was seventeen. _

_"It's a lighthouse," said Jasper resentfully. _

_"Yes," said Carlisle. "It is. Do you know where it came from?"_

_"No," this time muttered even more sullenly. _

_"It was built in Baltimore, and then shipped down to Biloxi in the 1840s. One of its first Keepers was actually a woman. Her name was Mary Reynolds. She stayed in the lighthouse during the Civil War, even though over-zealous Home Guards ordered the light extinguished."_

_Jasper had had no idea where the story was going. But he had listened anyway. _

_"While she was able to fulfill all of her Keeper duties, Mary kept herself busy by taking in children orphaned during the war. I can't even imagine how difficult it must have been for her, taking care of all those children during the trials and deprivations of the Civil War. The South was really devastated by the end of it, and I'd give anything to find out how in the world she found food to feed all of them," he said sadly. _

_The Civil War had always fascinated Jasper ... He found himself perking up a little as he listened to Carlisle's story. _

"_When I heard about what Mary did I was thirty-two years old. That was when I decided to find children and care for them as she did. Edward came to me later that year. It was 1901 and he was just a baby. His parents had both died of yellow fever," Carlisle paused for a long time before he continued. _

_Carlisle's voice became slightly wistful as he continued, and Jasper listened carefully. He had never heard the full story for why Carlisle had taken the three boys in. _

"_Emmett came two years later, in 1903, after both his parents were killed in a cabin fire. I was on my way through Tennessee at the time … Such a poor area! None of Emmett's relatives were really able to take him in. He was the oldest. If they could afford it, they wanted his younger brothers." Carlisle laughed as he said, "And I vowed never to take in another fourteen-year-old boy! I about ran myself ragged running after Emmett and Edward, who was just starting to walk and get into things. Thank goodness I had married Esme before Emmett came." _

_His voice became soft again, "I still don't fully understand how Esme coped with a toddler, a very active young man, and an extremely busy husband during those first few years of our marriage. After what she had been through, I wish I could have given her rest and peace. But running after Edward and Emmett seemed to be the best medicine I could have ever proscribed, so I let her run."_

"_What happened to her?" Jasper asked, his voice croaky. _

_Carlisle didn't answer. Instead he said, "I brought you by this lighthouse to show you that horrible things happen to many people. Think of Mary all alone in that lighthouse loving all those poor children who had lost their families in that war. But she didn't lose herself in her grief. She decided to do something different. She became like a lighthouse. And after hearing her story, I decided that I wanted to be like her."_

_Jasper shifted a bit and Carlisle continued gently, "And so did Esme. That is really all you need to know, son. When something bad happens to someone, in the end, it's not really important that you know _what_ happened, but whether or not you know if someone became a lighthouse because of it."_

It took several months for Jasper to figure out what Carlisle had been trying to tell him. You see, Jasper had been the last of the orphans to come to Carlisle and Esme. He had been abandoned by his family, too poor scrapping together a living in Texas to worry about another child. But they had kept his older brother.

He had been found by Maria, a woman of dubious morals living in Houston. Harsh, cold and domineering though she was at times, she had given Jasper food out of her own meager store, in exchange for any odd job or chore he might be able to do at the … place where she lived.

But she had never really loved him.

That was what made Jasper break in the end. Nobody had wanted him. He was no one's favorite. So when he came to Carlisle and Esme and it seemed like for the first time in a long time that someone might actually want him, he panicked. He tried to push them away before they could abandon him, terrified of the thought of leaving their white house on the ocean. And then he had hated himself for pushing them to do exactly what he feared … because he was afraid he was beyond healing.

It had taken the combined strength of Emmett's pranks and laughter, Edward's shy (but awkward) offers of friendship, Esme's deep love and Carlisle's compassion to show Jasper the truth – that he was wanted.

And he had become a favorite. Oh, not to say that Carlisle and Esme had "favorites," for they didn't. But it could not be denied that Esme would always have a special place in her heart for Edward, because she had watched him grow up, and because Edward reminded her of someone, although Jasper never knew who. There was just always the faintest edge of memory to her love for Edward though.... And Emmett had Rosalie, who loved Emmett with a fierceness that almost knocked Jasper over sometimes. And Jasper had Carlisle. Carlisle loved him, although Jasper was never able to figure out why. It went beyond them having similar temperaments, hobbies, likes, values, and goals. He would probably never figure it out. But he thought Carlisle would ask him not to try.

After all, the point was not _why_ Carlisle (or Esme or Edward or Rosalie or Emmett…) loved Jasper, but that they _did_.

**A/N By the way, there really is a lighthouse in Biloxi. :o) I thought everyone would enjoy that little tidbit!**

**Okay ... So you asked for a timeline...**

**Carlisle was born in 1868. He was thirty-two years old when Edward was born in 1901 (I've kept Edward's dates accurate ... even if he's the only one). Edward was adopted by Carlisle that same year, when he was just a baby. **

**Emmett was born in 1888. In this story (set in 1920), Emmett is thirty-two years old. He and Rose have been married for four years. They married in the spring of 1916, when Rose was twenty (she was born in 1896 -- Emmett is eight years older). Emmett was adopted by Carlisle and Esme in 1903, when he was fourteen years old (about to turn fifteen). **

**Edward is nineteen in the story. He is in college. He is the only child Carlisle had before he married Esme. He is also the only one who could have witnessed what the abuse did to Esme, but, alas, he was only two when Carlisle and Esme married, so he remains blissfully ignorant. **

**Esme was born in 1875. She was sixteen when she and Carlisle met for the first time in 1892. That was the time Esme fell out of the tree and broke her leg. They married in 1903 eleven years later when Esme was twenty-eight and Carlisle thirty-five. **

**Jasper was born in 1891. He is twenty-nine in the story. He was adopted in 1908 when he was seventeen years old. He came the latest to the family and stayed the least amount of time, which might be why he still feels like an outsider on occasion. He served in the First World War from 1917-18, while he twenty-seven years old.**

**Anyway, I hope all the dates match. I didn't have a calculator on me when I composed the timeline, so I was doing arithmetic in my head. And while I might have been good at math in school, it would not surprise me if there are mistakes. If so, then my profound apologies. **

**Lol! And I love messing with Edward. :o) I just have this feeling that he would have been more awkward given a chance to grow up as a regular human. I apologize if it seems OOC. Ordinarily, OOCness really gets on my nerves, but the chance to mess with Edward was just too good a chance to pass up. Besides, he screws up royally in the books. And I think, for all his perceptiveness and mind-reading capability, that he seriously misjudges people on a regular basis (Rosalie, anyone?). **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N *Author feels as if she is throwing a bomb* Well, here it is. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter ... It's pretty ... intense. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. **

Chapter Eight: Silent Screams

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_Beautiful Dreamer …._

_Awake unto me…._

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It was dark. Not even a hint of light came through the closed slats covering her window. All she saw was the pale-eyed man illuminated briefly against the open door when he walked into her room. There was a crème-colored dress in his hand. It clashed with the bright white of his coat.

"Your father brought me your wedding dress, Mary," he said. "Many congratulations on the event next week."

She was silent and still.

"What do you think, Mary? Isn't it beautiful?"

She was silent and still.

"Why won't you answer me, Mary? Why won't you say, 'Yes sir'?"

She was silent and still.

He grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her to her feet so roughly, her head snapped back. She grabbed his wrist, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

"_You will obey me_."

Her eyes darkened to the deepest gray. She would kill him if she could. And he knew it.

He saw her arm coming up, but until her fist connected with his cheek, he didn't believe what he was seeing. She wished to she had more strength, but even her fierce determination could not put any more weight behind the punch. She smiled darkly to herself when she saw the surprise in his eyes.

He was so shocked he let her hit him again. She knew what he was thinking. A frightened patient never struck her doctor (captor). She cringed, she cried, she begged, but never did she attack. He couldn't have been more shocked if earth and sky had switched places.

"You _dare_ to strike me?" he whispered.

But before he could say anything else, she threw another punch. His pupils dilated to the deepest black.

And then there was pain. So much more pain.

He yelled something over and over again, "What is your name? … What is your name? … What is your name?"

_What is your name?_

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When he was finished, she didn't move.

Her necklace was gone.

There was no warmth inside.

"What is your name?"

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Her insides hurt.

She didn't cry, but only because her eyes were dry and cool, like her mother's lips. She couldn't see anything.

"What is your name?"

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_There is no shame in waging a fierce war and losing. _

That was what her teacher used to tell her. During spelling competitions when Alice tried with all the perseverance in her small body to defeat the bigger kids.

But she wasn't sure now if she agreed.

"What is your name?"

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She kept fighting him until the next morning. She knew it was important to keep fighting until the next morning. And the morning after… And the morning after … And the morning after … And the morning after …

Something was happening soon … something important …. but she couldn't remember what.

She just knew that now she felt like two people. Alice was fighting, but only out of habit – because she must. Even though it really didn't seem to matter anymore.

But Mary stopped. Mary couldn't fight anymore. And she was afraid she was Mary now.

"What is your name?"

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"What is your name?" she asked again. A girl with long black hair, pale skin and gray eyes taunted her.

"Did you really think you could win? Did you really think you could fight everyone?" the long-haired girl said.

"It's still not over," the short-haired girl whispered.

"Do you think so? He's taken everything from you now. Do you really think Jasper is going to love you after this?"

"Yes," the short-haired girl whispered softly.

"He will return you to this dark place. You're broken. You've been broken all along. They tried to fix you here, but you had to fight it. And now here you are," the long-haired girl mocked.

The short-haired girl rocked back and forth, clutching her stomach.

"Jasper will see you on Sunday. And he will return you here. Like an unwanted piece of baggage to the store. Unless …. Of course, you yield and obey," the long-haired girl said.

"No," the short-haired girl mouthed. _No_…

"Come …. You are Mary now. Alice is dead."

_Alice is dead. _

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She was a ghost.

_Alice is dead._

She was a paper doll on the floor.

_Alice is dead. _

"What is your name?"

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For some reason a passage from _A Little Princess_ came to her. Spoken, of course, in Cynthia's young, halting voice, as if to mock her.

_"'It's true! It's true!' she cried. 'I've touched them all. They are as real as we are. The Magic has come and done it, Becky, while we were asleep – the Magic that won't let those worst things _ever_ quite happen.'"_

She laughed.

"What is your name?"

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He came back before the morning dawned. His black eyes glittered at her, and she was afraid.

"If you will not speak to me, if you will not stop fighting, then there is really only one thing I know to do," he said.

"What is your name?" he said.

"Alice," she answered hoarsely.

"Wrong answer," he whispered.

For the rest of the week, it didn't matter what she did. If she made one sound, he beat her, sometimes with his fists, sometimes with the leather restraints on her bed. She wondered dreamily through the beating why no one tried to stop him … Surely the other doctors knew … Didn't it go against all the oaths they took? …

What was it about her that caused the black-eyed man to focus so intensely on her? Why did her resistance matter so much? Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

But by now it didn't matter … If she whimpered, if she coughed, if she screamed (even _she_ could not keep the screams in now when he … hurt her). It didn't matter.

And she learned quickly.

She wanted to keep talking, to not give in, but she was so tired …. So tired …

And it never ended. The week until her wedding felt like three years.

_Alice is dead. _

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She could not see the blond-haired man's face. He had blue eyes…

But she could not remember his name.

She could only remember _his_ name now.

_James._

_James._

_James. _

It beat against her skull, and she yelled her own name out in her mind, trying to drown out his.

_Alice. _

_Alice._

_Alice._

But the long-haired girl shouted too. It overwhelmed her own words, until they could not be heard.

_Mary._

_Mary._

_Mary. _

"What is your name?"

_Alice is dead. _

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She put on the crème-colored dress and a lacy veil. Her mind was blank and there were no pictures behind her eyes.

He watched her come out of her room for the last time.

His eyes were not pale anymore. The pupils had dilated so much they looked black. They were always black now. She saw them and shivered. She was as helpless against him as a tiny sparrow in its nest, unable to take flight, too small to fight back.

_I won't give in I won't give in I won't give in I won't give in I won't give in I won't give in I won't give in. _

"What is your name, Mary?" he asked for the last time. He walked towards her, like a stalking predator. And Alice was dead now. So she did the only thing she had never done before.

She panicked.

She twisted and curled and slithered around him and managed to race out of her room, his hand grazing the edge of her torn nightgown. The bright lights of the hallway blinded her and she ran into a white-colored wall. There was a doorknob beneath her palm. She pushed open the door and her stomach dropped as she crashed down a flight of stairs. Instinctively, her arms raised to protect her face. At the bottom, she curled into a tiny ball, ignoring the painful pulling of the aches in her limbs. She closed her eyes.

She heard his steps on the stairs.

"Now, now Mary," he whispered quietly. "Do you really want me to tell your young man that you're not well and cannot attend the wedding? Come, stand up and prove to me that you can."

She shivered at the malice in his voice. Slowly, she stretched out her legs and arms. Using the banister she was able to hoist up her small weight to stand up. Her left leg trembled slightly. She could barely hear the black-eyed man through the fog of her pain.

"Now, see what you did, Mary? You twisted your veil," he murmured.

This time she allowed him to approach and straighten the lacy veil covering her short hair. Her hands tightened into fists, and her teeth ground together in her effort not to pull away from him.

He grinned.

She thought the long journey back up the stairs would never end. When she finally reached the top, she was almost in too much pain to notice anything else. The dull red hair in the corner was the only clue that the motherly nurse was there. She sat back down in her room until the coach came to take her away to the blond-haired man with blue eyes.

_She couldn't remember his name… _

"Congratulations, Mary. I'm sure your life with your husband will be …. blessed," James whispered before she left.

The corners of her mouth flinched, but otherwise she sat motionless, her gaze leveled on some point behind him. Then she rose from her kneeling position and swayed out of the dark place.

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She spat at him before she left.

But her mouth was dry and nothing came out. She just went through the motions. Her eyes were blank.

Black eyes followed her out into the daylight.

She whispered to herself, but could not hear her own words.

My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice. My name is Alice.

_Alice is dead. _

**Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Gray and Blue

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_Beautiful Dreamer…._

_Awake unto me…._

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Jasper paced back and forth at the rear of St. Luke's Anglican Church. It was a tiny church across the street from his home. It was the church Carlisle had attended since moving to Biloxi from London. It had dark pews, with the varnish worn to a dull brown from years of use.

Alice should be arriving any minute. Esme had wanted to help her get dressed since her mother was dead, but Mr. Brandon had said he had taken care that Alice would be helped by an old family friend. He had been lying – Jasper could tell – but he had absolutely no idea why Mr. Brandon would lie about something as trivial as that. What had been the point? However, it was the last straw in a large pile of hay, and Jasper was getting anxious.

Where did Alice live? She wasn't at Mr. Brandon's home because one afternoon Jasper had tried to surprise Alice by calling on her. He had made other inquiries in the neighborhood, but now one had seen Alice since she was a child.

Why did she speak so little? He could understand her reluctance to speak in front of a man who seemed to care little for her. Jasper had been around enough bitter and disunited families in his youth not to understand that Mr. Brandon – despite his seeming spinelessness – might be a difficult man to be around. Living with the Cullens had dulled his memories though, and it had come as something as a shock to realize that there were people like that even outside of Texas.

Why did she still look sick? Mr. Brandon said that she had recovered from whatever illness she had suffered from when she was a child. But Jasper didn't miss the careful scrutiny of Carlisle whenever Alice was near him. He had been trained to ignore what people _told _him. When illness was involved, emotions tended to get in the way and people made a great point of either denying anything was wrong or blowing a simple ailment into the most tragic terminal disease. Instead, Carlisle paid attention to what his five senses told him. And something was telling him that all was not right with Alice. Knowing this, Jasper felt worried.

But, more importantly, why did she seem so afraid?

That was the big question. Oh, Jasper couldn't really define it as _fear_ – after all, there was no hint of color, nothing to suggest to him that what she was feeling was fear. It was as if her actions were the outer skin of a void, like a balloon filled with nothing. The exterior was there, but there was nothing – no emotion – on the interior to match what his eyes were telling him. She _looked_ afraid, but she didn't _feel_ afraid. Like Carlisle, Jasper knew what his eyes were telling him, but he had no idea how to put the pieces together.

Where did she live?

What did she speak so little?

Why did she still look sick?

Why was she afraid?

Why?

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Jasper almost bent double when Alice walked down the aisle of the church. The ribbons flying from her were so powerful that his vision blanked. Carlisle, Esme, Emmett and Edward disappeared. All he could see were tangled yarns of gray and blue, tinged with black, red.

Colors he knew to be fear, pain, hate and anger.

And helplessness.

He back hunched and he rubbed his fingertips into his temple. He wasn't sure what he did at first, because he had never encountered anything like it before, but he tried to _push_ the ribbons away. As hard as he could he concentrated on yellow and white and green ribbons … colors he always associated with contentment, peace and serenity. For a moment the yarns tangled even further, making a garish knot of varied colors. Finally, the grays and blues faded somewhat, diluted by the whites and yellows.

Jasper was shocked when the girl looked at him and smiled. It went against everything he had ever learned to associate with the ribbons. The ribbons coming from her, although dulled, were still strong. He could see them clearly against the edges of his eyes, and not just as an afterglow when he blinked. Although muted by her veil, he could clearly see that she was smiling, but it was hard, pulling the thin skin of her cheeks taunt.

Jasper looked more closely and saw her eyes. They were wide and gray against her too-pale face … and they triggered a memory deep within him – a memory that reared up from the mud of France. He had done everything he could since meeting Alice to eradicate the images of the Great Massacre from his mind. But Alice's white face merged with another face, like two reflections facing each other through a window …

A vague, blurry picture of a young soldier filtered across his eyes. He had been a kid really. He had just lost his entire unit. All his friends. All his comrades. All his mates. There had been an instinctive frenzy deep within his brown eyes, although his face had been quiet… calm. Jasper had wondered, in a vague way, if the kid blamed himself for being the only one to survive. Or if maybe the grief was so powerful it gave him a new strength – if that was why he could maintain such serenity. But then Jasper had gone back to thinking about his own troubles and forgot about the kid. It was only after the kid died that Jasper finally realized what he had missed seeing in the kid's eyes.

His eyes were like those of an animal trapped in a cage.

Jasper didn't understand what the look meant until he had seen the kid's still body beneath a white sheet later the next day. He had pulled the blanket back from his face. He lost count of the bullet holes shattering the kid's body (damn machine guns … damn trenches … damn war….). After seeing the kid's eyes blank in death, Jasper kicked himself for not feeling the emotions, for not understanding, for not _noticing_. It was just that war was one hell of a place for an empath to be, and he had trained himself to ignore the ribbons that bombarded him with such strength that the taste of fear and boredom in his mouth became normal. Now he wished he had paid more attention, both to the kid and now to Alice.

Because the same look was in her eyes.

He felt frightened. Her smallness seemed frail now, her narrow shoulders and thin arms barely filling the crème-colored material of her wedding dress. He had never seen anyone look as helpless. But he was more afraid of the impotent frenzy and rage and fear that glittered in her eyes, making him think of that poor kid who wanted so badly for death. But just like with the kid, Jasper was no nearer to knowing _why_ she wanted death than those years ago when he had first seen a kid walk back to the encampment alone.

As she walked closer, the emotions became even more powerful. But Jasper had no idea how to proceed. As he took her arm and walked her closer to the minister, she stiffened. She held herself as far from him as possible, barely touching the skin of his hand with hers. It was difficult to see through her veil, but he noticed that her eyes weren't focused on anything. Her face was blank, as if she had no idea where she was.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God…" the minister began. Jasper could see through his peripheral vision the happiness on Esme and Carlisle's faces. Missing a gift like Jasper's, they had not noticed Alice's distress. Indeed, who would? Alice looked perfectly calm and almost happy now. Only there was still the same terrifying blankness in her eyes. And Jasper was barely able to control the lines of pain and fear and helpless rage coming from her.

The trembling started though as soon as the vows were read.

"Do you, Mary Alice Brandon …." the minister read. **"**Take this man to be you husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

Jasper thought for a long, panicked moment that she wasn't going to answer. She might not have if Jasper had not leaned down and whispered into the pastor's ear.

"Will you, Alice Brandon, take Jasper Whitlock Cullen …" the minister amended.

And eventually she mouthed, "I will."

The pastor continued, "And will you, Jasper Whitlock Hale, take this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?"

His voice rang out into the church as he answered, "I will."

Father Matthew continued the service with words of gentle advice and general words of wisdom disguised as platitudes.

"Love is patient and kind. It is never jealous. Love is never boastful or conceited. It is never rude or selfish. It does not take offence, nor is it resentful. Love takes no pleasure in others' sins but delights in the truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope and to endure whatever comes," he read.

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"I take thee, Alice, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part," Jasper vowed a few minutes later.

He never heard Alice's response, although he read the words on her lips.

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"_I take thee, Jasper, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."_

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In later years, Jasper didn't remember much of what happened after the ceremony. It had been a small wedding – only the Cullens and a few old friends of the family had come. It was only after the ceremony was over and everyone had gathered for a light reception that Jasper noticed none of Alice's family had come at all.

Originally he had wanted a small wedding and reception because the simplicity of the thing pleased him. And Alice had agreed, which became its principle selling point. But after seeing Alice walk down the aisle, Jasper just wanted to get out of there. But they cut the cake and made toasts and had their picture taken. He was focused so obsessively on Alice though that what he saw made fuzzy, almost impressionistic, images in his mind. He knew, in a vague sort of way, that he would remember little of the fanfare and ceremony of his wedding.

It was Alice who stood out with a painful clarity in his mind. She smiled and dutifully did everything tradition required of her (complete with smashing a small piece of white frosted cake into Jasper's face), but her smile was tight, and her eyes still strangely blank.

And she wouldn't leave Jasper's side.

If someone came near her, she stiffened so hard, and her emotions became so powerfully tinged with panic that Jasper had to concentrate with all his might to push the colored ribbons away, to make them resemble something more like peace or contentment (he wasn't naïve enough to think he could make Alice feel _happy_ in the state she was in). Despite not seeming to want to leave Jasper's side, she never really looked _at_ him. Her eyes passed right through him.

He wondered if she even knew who he was.

It wasn't until they were about to leave the church that Jasper felt one tenth of Alice's panic himself. Emmett leaned in to give Alice a hug. He was the only one to come that close during the entire reception (Esme and Carlisle and Edward has seemed content to watch Jasper, who always seemed so remote and reserved, so close to another human being. After all, if they came in too close, they would not be able to enjoy the sight of Jasper's arm around Alice).

But Alice snapped.

Her back slammed into the open door of the church leading outside. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out, just short little bursts of breath. All reason, all personality, all emotion leaked right out of her eyes, leaving only an opaque shell of pure, animalistic terror. It was a primal, instinctive, visceral reaction, and it scared Jasper to death.

Emmett had backed up immediately, his eyes wary and strangely pained.

"Oh, I _never _wanted to see this again," Emmett whispered viciously to himself. "What did they do to you?" he said a little louder.

When all Alice did at the sound of Emmett's voice was to slide down to her knees and pull even tighter into herself, Jasper did the only thing he knew to do. He called for his father, feeling very much like a small child.

"Carlisle!" he cried, in what he hoped was a calm voice (he didn't want to scare Alice any more). Carlisle must have heard the desperation in his son's voice though because he rushed towards them. Esme followed but stopped abruptly when she saw Alice crouched against the door.

Jasper didn't have to explain what was wrong. Carlisle knew.

"Oh my God …" he whispered. He tried to reach for her, but Alice stiffened, and held her arms tightly around her stomach. Jasper's mind numbed with a growing horror.

"What do I do, Carlisle?" asked Jasper frantically.

Carlisle sighed and moved back a few steps. Then he sat down on the steps of the church and started talking to Alice softly. His gentle, compassionate voice whispering encouragement to Alice was the only sound in the church's courtyard for the next few minutes. But it didn't seem to help. Alice just closed her eyes and clinched her teeth.

"Jasper … See if she responds to you," Carlisle finally said in a tired voice.

Jasper knelt down in front of Alice and looked at her until she opened her eyes. They were blank at first, but when she focused on his blue eyes there was a flicker of something more thoughtful in them. Almost like recognition …. Her lids fluttered again as her eyes flicked between Jasper and some point behind him. Jasper peeked behind his shoulder, but all he saw were the shadows cast by the side of the church.

He felt sure now though that the real battle was between Alice's sight of him and whatever she was seeing in the shadows.

"Alice," he whispered, not sure what else to say. As soon as she heard her name, she focused more clearly on Jasper.

He felt the sharp-edge tinge of desperation in her concentration on his face, and he whispered her name again, "Alice."

This time she sighed quietly and her body settled into a more relaxed posture. Her face was still tight, and her eyes focused much too frantically on Jasper's face, but at least now she didn't stiffen when Jasper moved slowly towards her.

"Come on, Alice," he said. "Let's go home."

No one was more surprised than he when she smiled slightly. It was the barest hint of a smile and Jasper would have missed it if he had not been watching for it so desperately.

He murmured her name a few more times before she collapsed against him. He picked her up and carried her towards his home.


End file.
